Sanity is sex
The mist rolls off the Kangchenjunga peaks, swallowing the veranda in a damp, grey wool that smells of wet pine and approaching rain. It is the prescribed cure for everything here in Darjeeling—fresh air, order, and high altitude.
I adjust the collar of my starched white uniform, the fabric tight against my throat, watching Captain Ernst Grainger stare blankly at the invisible horizon. He looks like a man whose internal machinery has ground to a halt; the gears of the Empire are stripping him clean.
"The unrest in the provinces is... untenable," Grainger mutters, his voice thin, reedy. He grips the armrests of his wheelchair until his knuckles turn the colour of old ivory.
"That man, Gandhi. The sheer audacity of it. It makes the head throb."
"It makes the cock soft, Captain," Gertrude says from behind him.
She leans against the stone railing, her bobbed hair sleek as a black helmet, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She exhales a plume of smoke that mingles with the mountain fog.
"What you need is a different kind of regimentation."
I shoot Gertrude a look—a sharp, warning glance that she ignores with a smirk.
We have a history, she and I, forged in the blood-soaked trenches of France and the cramped, secret cots of the field hospitals. We know exactly how to treat a man who is cracking under the pressure. The war taught us that the body is a machine, and sometimes it needs a violent overhaul to keep running.
"Fresh air," I say, stepping forward to grip the handles of his chair.
"That is the Doctor's orders. We need to get you out of this chair, Captain. Into the grass."
Grainger doesn't protest. He is too tired, too hollowed out by the weight of keeping the British Empire afloat. I wheel him off the flagstones and onto the manicured lawn, the wheels sinking slightly into the damp earth.
We move past the vibrant explosions of colour—rhododendrons, orchids, and hibiscus—that threaten to swallow the sanatorium whole. The air is thinner here, sharp in the lungs.
"Here," I say, stopping under the secluded canopy of a massive Himalayan cedar, "This will do."
Gertrude is already there, spreading a wool blanket over the moss.
She drops to her knees, not like a nurse, but the cheap slut I know, her movements fluid and predatory.
I lock the brakes on the chair and move around to the front, offering Grainger my hand. He looks up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and confused.
"Come, Captain," I whisper. "Let us realign your humours."
He takes my hand. Between us, we haul him out of the chair. His legs are weak, trembling, but we hold his weight, sandwiching him between our bodies. The scent of him is stale tobacco and anxiety.
We lower him to the blanket. He lies back, breathing hard, looking up at the dense canopy of green and the two women looming over him like cloud borne angels. Well angels with pussies.
"Relax," Gertrude murmurs, her hand moving to the buckle of his belt, "We are going to drain the tension right out of you."
I watch her fingers work, deft and practiced. She pulls his trousers down, exposing his pale, flaccid cock to the mountain air. It looks sad, dormant. I kneel beside him, taking his face in my hands. His skin is clammy.
"Kiss me," I command.
He hesitates, then surges upward, his mouth crashing against mine.
It's a desperate, messy kiss—tasting of gin and despair. I open for him, letting his tongue invade my mouth, my hand sliding down his chest to unbutton my tunic.
I need the air on my skin. I need to feel the cool of the Darjeeling breeze against my heated flesh. Afternoon shifts are so boring. This will break the daily pattern.
Gertrude has him in her hand now, stroking him with a firm, rhythmic grip. I watch from the corner of my eye as she spits on his shaft, the saliva glistening in the shadowy light.
Geez, the bitch can mass produce saliva like a waterfall, his cock glistens like its coated in Vaseline.
He stiffens in her palm, the blood finally pumping, the machine kicking into gear.
I break the kiss with Grainger and turn to Gertrude, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss.
It's familiar territory—her lips, the taste of her lipstick, the way she bites my lower lip just hard enough to make me gasp. Her Gazebo signature kiss.
Grainger groans, his hand tangling in my hair. "God in heaven..."
"Watch," I say against Gertrude's mouth, "Heaven is pussy."
I pull away from her and stand up, shucking my skirt and stepping out of my knickers. The grass is cold and moist against my bare feet, a shocking contrast to the heat building between my thighs.
I straddle Grainger's waist, hovering over his now-hard cock.
Gertrude guides him into me.
"Vivian, at your slutty, prettiest best with your legs wide open."
"Sister, don't you and I both know it."
I sink down, taking him deep, a guttural moan tearing from my throat as he stretches me open.
"Oooh! Captain! That's my man! Flagpole erect! Oohh!"
He fills me completely, the thickness of him forcing a gasp from my lungs. I brace my hands on his chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs—a frantic, trapped bird.
"Yes," I hiss, rolling my hips. "That's it."
Gertrude doesn't wait. She hikes up her skirt, revealing the dark curls of her pussy and the garters holding her stockings.
She straddles Grainger's face, facing me, her knees digging into the soft moss on either side of his head.
"Service us, Captain," she commands, her voice dark with intent, "Make yourself useful."
Her rich velvet patch latches onto his face. Mixes with his moustache. A pretty patchwork of hair. Ginger and brunette. Then both mussed, wet and damp with his spit and her dripping juices. Delicate curled pubes matted to her thighs.
I watch her eyes roll back as his tongue finds her clit. The sight sends thrill through my slash.
I start to ride Grainger in earnest, lifting my hips and slamming back down, taking his pecker to the hilt with every thrust. The friction is exquisite, a raw, dragging warmth that builds in the base of my spine.
The lift, the drag, the rise, the grind. Cock trapped in my enveloping flesh cradle. Hips rocking. Thighs squeezing. Pussy clenching.
The air fills with the sounds of our flesh—wet slaps, ragged breathing. The blanket curls beneath us. The scent of sex rises, musk and sweat, cutting through the smell of the damp earth.
Gertrude and I lock eyes, our bodies moving in a synchronized rhythm. She burrows down onto his face, her hands gripping her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt.
"Fuck him, Vivian," she pants, her cheeks flushed. "Fuck him hard."
I do. I ride him like I'm breaking a wild horse, my thighs burning with the exertion. The pressure inside me coils tighter and tighter, a spring winding down to the breaking point.
Grainger is bucking beneath us, a man possessed, his hands gripping my hips, tighter than a baton, ready for crowd control.
"I'm going to cum," I gasp, the words torn from me. "Oh, fuck, I'm going to cum! Oh Lord! Yes! Yes! Aahh!"
Gertrude leans forward, crashing her mouth against mine.
The kiss is the catalyst. My pussy clenches around Grainger's cock, spasming violently as the orgasm rips through me.
I cry out into Gertrude's mouth, my body shaking, wave after wave of pleasure drowning me. Above me, Gertrude shudders, her back arching as she finds her own release, soaking Grainger's face with her drizzle of girly dew.
We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and heaving chests, sprawled across the damp lawn under the ancient cedars. The mist swirls low, cooling the sweat on our skin.
For a long moment, there is no sound but our ragged breathing and the distant call of a hill bird.
Eventually, Gertrude stirs. She reaches into the pocket of her discarded uniform and pulls out a silver flask. She unscrews the cap and takes a long swig, then offers it to me. The gin burns going down, sharp and medicinal, washing away the taste of sex. The memory though, added to my storehouse of smut.
"To the King," Grainger whispers from the bottom of the pile.
"Prefer a toast to fresh air sex," I say, handing the flask back to Gertrude.
She grins, her lipstick smeared, her eyes bright in the approaching twilight.
"To King Cock," Gertrude offers, and takes another swig.